


Burned Things

by Beleriandings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossover, Gen, melancholic harp guys of my heart, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ruins of Summerhall are usually dark and empty, and Prince Rhaegar does not expect to meet a stranger there. The two of them share a song or two and a few tales before daybreak.</p><p>(The prompt was Maglor meeting Rhaegar Targaryen. I did my best!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burned Things

Thin wisps of cloud scudded across the sky as Rhaegar lay on his back, his eyes closed. The stars were visible, as well as a half moon, for the ruin of what had been the great hall had no roof. There were only the ragged remnants of the walls of Summerhall, dark against the glimmering night sky. Suddenly the moonlight was blocked off by a shadow falling over him, a shadow too sharp and sudden to be cast by a cloud. His eyes sprang open to see a dark figure standing over him, looking down. He could not see a face, but his hand went to his sword hilt automatically. No one had ever troubled him here before, but he was recognisably the heir to the throne, and if there were more of them…

But the figure was raising empty hands before it, a gesture of peace. Rhaegar stood, facing the strange, silent man before him. 

"Who are you? What brings you to this place?"

"One ends up in most places when one has walked the paths of this world as long as I have."

Rhaegar frowned, noticing that the man had neglected to answer his first question. “Very well then. Keep your secrets. But you must have a name.”

"Maglor."

"Is that your real name?"

"Does it matter? It is if you choose to believe it is."

"What are you doing here?"

Maglor’s face was like no face he had ever seen before, simultaneously young and ancient. His hair was a dark tangle of shadow in the half light.  That face reminded Rhaegar of the carven images of the Gods in the most ancient of Septs, impassive and still as stone; but no, that face looked older than any statues of the Seven that he had seen, older, even, than the strange, solemn faces carved into the trunks of the weirwood trees that the Northmen worshipped. Certainly those eyes seemed quite as ancient, inscrutable and dark.

"You’re a prince" said Maglor. It was not a question. 

"Prince Rhaegar of house Targaryen, prince of Dragonstone, son of his grace King Aerys." He knew he could give his father’s full list of titles, but curiosity and impatience got the better of him. "What business have you at Summerhall?"

Maglor ignored him, his eyes sliding over Rhaegar’s books that he had laid on a broken piece of masonry, his harp beside them. “A prince who is also a musician, and a scholar” said Maglor, as though to himself, his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly, before he nodded at the sword at Rhaegar’s hip, “and a warrior.” His head snapped back upwards and their eyes met. “Why do you come here, prince? I’ve seen you before. Why do you sleep in the ruins?”

Rhaegar did not even bother asking how Maglor knew he came here often. “Summerhall burned” he said instead, his voice halting. “On the day that I was born, the castle burned. I am bound to this place. The stones…” he ran a hand over a broken piece of cornice that had fallen to the ground “… they speak to me.”

Maglor nodded, as if he understood exactly.  ”Fire has a way of consuming beautiful things. It would have been beautiful, in its day, I think?”

Rhaegar nodded. Suddenly Maglor motioned towards Rhaegar’s harp. “May I? It has been so long since I played.”

Again, Rhaegar felt he should dismiss this Maglor, send him away from this place, but curiosity won him over. He nodded his assent. 

Reverently, almost fearfully, Maglor picked up Rhaegar’s harp, holding it for a moment, testing the weight and balance of the instrument in his hands. Rhaegar noticed, with a slight jolt, that the palms of his hands were ridged and puckered with scar tissue, the silver-white of old wounds, long healed.

Maglor plucked a chord, experimentally. He seemed pleased with the result, for something that was almost a true smile lingered about his lips. Then he began to play.

The song was unlike any Rhaegar had ever heard, but so heart-piercingly beautiful he could do nothing but stand and listen. Maglor’s voice rose, singing in a language Rhaegar did not recognise.  _Some tongue from a far distant land across the Narrow Sea, perhaps?_  But Rhaegar recognised not a single word as Valyrian in origin. And yet he found himself not caring about such things as much as he usually would, for the unexpected beauty of Maglor’s voice, cracked though it was with disuse, made Rhaegar’s breath catch in his throat. The song was immeasurably sad, shot through with a lifetime of grief and suffering, an ocean of tears deep enough to drown in. 

Finally Maglor fell silent. They both stood staring at each other for a while. Then Maglor handed him back the harp carefully, with a deep sigh. “Thank you, prince.”

"What was that you played?" asked Rhaegar at length. 

"A fragment" said Maglor. "Of one of my own compositions. From long ago." He did not seem inclined to say any more.

"Who are you?"

Maglor sighed, running his scarred hands over the stones. “One who survived the fire, but came out none the better for it.” He stared upwards at the sky, eyes roaming over it, looking for something. His eyes caught on the brightest star in the sky, and lingered there for a moment. Then he looked back at Rhaegar, eyes falling on the sigil of the three-headed dragon burned into the leather of his jerkin. “What do you know of dragons, prince?”

Rhaegar drew himself up a little taller. “I am the heir to House Targaryen. The dragon’s blood flows in my veins. I know - “

"Have you ever met one? A dragon, I mean."

This caught Rhaegar off guard. “All the dragons are dead.”

"Nevertheless, I met one once. It burned my lands and fortress. I had to go live with my brother."

"Impossible. You’re far too young to have seen a real live dragon." And yet something in Maglor’s tone made Rhaegar think he was telling the truth.

"I’m older than I look."

Rhaegar scoffed. “Oh really? How old are you then?”

"You don’t want to know."

"Enough riddles." Rhaegar felt his patience fraying. "Tell me."

"I’ve lost count" said Maglor. 

 _Probably never learned how to count_ , thought Rhaegar.  _Probably just some hedge knight or wanderer, or a vagabond who thinks it amusing to talk to a prince before his fellows come up and capture me for ransom._ And yet there was no one else near; the light wind had dropped and the night was almost completely still. 

Finally Rhaegar felt curiosity get the better of him once more. “So, supposing I am to believe you saw a dragon… is that what burned your hands?”

Maglor’s face darkened. “No. No it wasn’t.” He paused for a moment. “Do you have any brothers?”

Rhaegar was momentarily surprised by the abrupt change of subject. “Yes. I have a younger brother, Viserys.” 

"Is he safe?"

Suddenly Rhaegar was suspicious. “Yes, he is with our mother the Queen, on Dragonstone.”  _If there was a plot to kill the heirs to the throne_ _… but why would Maglor tell him?_

"Good" said Maglor. "Terrible thing, losing a brother."

"Do you have a brother?"

"I had six."

"Six? What happened to them?"

"They died" said Maglor shortly. Then he sighed, shaking his head a little. "In the war."

_The war? Did he mean the War of the Ninepenny Kings? Maglor did not look quite old enough to have fought in that war himself, but he had said he was older than he looked… he had the air of a sellsword about him, Rhaegar thought, if an extremely ragged-looking one. Or he would have, if he had carried a sword. Could he have fought in the Golden Company, for the pretender? But surely not, he was too young…_

Rhaegar’s thought were interrupted by Maglor motioning to the harp. “Would you play something for me, prince?”

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes for a moment, trying to see the danger in the man before him, but for all he tried Maglor seemed harmless, like one whose true time in this world has long passed. Rhaegar could not quite justify it to himself, but he felt almost as though he were in the presence of a ghost, a shade of Maglor’s former self. He felt that Maglor could have been a great man once, but now Rhaegar merely felt pity for him. “Alright” he said, picking up his harp from where Maglor had left it. 

Rhaegar played a song of his own composition, one that had no words at all yet. Maglor listened intently, almost hungrily, as he played. Then they talked, the moonlight and starlight reflecting off those strange dark eyes, lighting them with silver fire. Maglor seemed to blink less often than most people, Rhaegar noticed.

Their conversation was slow, halting as Maglor’s speech was cryptic and full of references to events that Rhaegar had no knowledge of. Maglor gave off the distinct impression of not having had a proper conversation in a long time. He seemed almost to have forgotten how, his words rushing and halting by turns. 

Maglor seemed to know little of history, of the Faith, of languages, of anything save music and perhaps of war, despite his lack of arms. Rhaegar found himself rather growing to like him, or at least to consider him an intellectual challenge. Then he found himself, without quite knowing why, telling Maglor about the prophecy, about his betrothal to the Dornish princess, about his father and his mother. 

Maglor never seemed to have any advice to offer on any count, but Rhaegar thought he preferred it that way. Their conversation wound back and forth, until the sun began to redden the eastern sky, picking out the broken stones in bloody light.

Maglor looked up at the sky. “I must take my leave of you” he said at last. They both stood, and Maglor bowed deeply, surprising Rhaegar. ”You will make a good king, I think. But I must let you get away from this place” he gestured at the fallen stones of Summerhall all about them. “It’s good, I think, for a king to keep company with ruined things, once in a while. But not for too long.”


End file.
